Gunsmoke Justice

by Louis Trimble

  Brad said, “What’s the matter with Toll?”

  “He don’t like to think bad things,” Bannon said heavily. “They bother him. He don’t like to be bothered, so he don’t think.”

  If there was any humor in Bannon’s words, Brad failed to appreciate it. He had seen too many men follow the same path. “How would you handle that busted fence?” he asked suddenly.

  Bannon tossed a red queen on a black king. “Wait and see.

  “Seems to me you’ve been waiting quite awhile.”

  “We take orders from Arden, the same as you,” Bannon pointed out. He turned his back, closing off the conversation. Krouse had nothing at all to offer.

  Brad said, “I think I’ll do a little looking myself.”

  Krouse looked up. Bannon made no move except to toss down another card. It was Krouse who spoke. “Help yourself,” he said.

  Brad turned and went out. Olaf followed and helped saddle. Under Brad’s painstaking work while at the homestead, Olaf had come a long way in his handling of cowhand chores. He saddled expertly, and he could put on a pack with a diamond hitch as well as the next man. A little shooting practice with the gun Brad had given him, as well as with a rifle, had brought results.

  They mounted now, and Brad glanced toward the light spilling yellow out of the open bunkhouse door. “Olaf,” he said, “never get satisfied. And never think when you hire out that your work is done because the sun sets.”

  “Yah,” Olaf agreed. “Foolish. When they fight, it’s too late.”

  “Always too late,” Brad repeated softly.

  He reined northwest into the high pastureland. The night was not yet full dark, but a deep, dusky twilight that gave odd shapes to the jagged hills and the trees along the twisting creeks of the uplands. Stopping on a knoll, he could see a pair of lights some distance ahead. One would be Biddle’s, the other Quarles’.

  While he watched, something came between him and the first light; and the something was not too far off. By listening closely, he made out the drum of hoofs on the hard-packed earth.

  “Rider,” he said. “Now who’s fool enough to break his neck hurrying in the dark?”

  “Arden going to see Quarles,” Olaf said from beside him.

  Brad swung his head. “What for?”

  Olaf’s shrug was faintly visible. “I saw his horse there, two — three times.”

  It was on the edge of Brad’s tongue to ask Olaf why he hadn’t spoken of this before. And then Brad realized that to a man strange to the country, much of what went on had been incomprehensible. The ways of the cattle-land were not things that Olaf could understand easily.

  Brad only said, “Let’s mosey along and find out.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ARDEN RODE NORTHWEST across the upper Split S range to make it appear as if he were going to investigate the downed fencing. Once out of sight and earshot of the ranch, he swung across Biddle’s graze.

  It was almost full dark by the time he put his horse into Quarles’ yard. Newt came from the bunkhouse, and Arden gave his name. This display of caution struck him as curious.

  Inside the house he found Quarles smoking a cigar, relaxed in an easy chair. Arden said, “What’s Newt doing on guard?”

  “The drifter and the Swede came back.” Quarles’ eyes measured Arden. “That’s what you came to tell me?”

  “One of the things,” Arden said. “They’re staying at Split S.”

  “So I figured,” Quarles said, “when they didn’t show at the homestead.”

  Arden took a nervous turn around the room and then, realizing that Quarles was watching him too closely, he forced himself to calmness. “Running them out that way was a fool thing to do,” he blurted.

  Quarles’ eyebrows went up. “I didn’t want that drifter around,” he said. “He was getting too close to things.”

  “Then you should have got rid of him for good,” Arden countered.

  Quarles smoked in silence for a moment. His deep-sunk eyes were thoughtful as he saw the nervousness Arden could not conceal. Finally, he said, “I like to stay within the law as long as I can.”

  Arden silently cursed Quarles’ unperturbed control. “You can’t any longer,” he said.

  “Not much longer,” Quarles agreed. He brushed smoke from in front of his face and apparently dismissed the subject. “What else did you have to tell me?”

  “Biddle’s rustling Split S stock again,” Arden accused hotly.

  “Putting his brand on it?” There was a jeer in Quarles’ question.

  “My brand goes on all Split S beef,” Arden said. “That’s the deal.”

  “See Biddle, not me,” Quarles told him. A smile pulled down the corners of his heavy mouth. “Maybe he’s just holding it for you.”

  Fury welled up in Arden. He paced around the room, working it all over in his mind. When he faced Quarles again, he said, “I don’t trust Biddle.”

  “He’s handy to have around.”

  “For a while, maybe,” Arden admitted. His voice dropped, coming slyly. “But he’s about through. He’s got almost as much graze as you have. He’s got good meadows in the hills.”

  Quarles lifted his hand and rapped ash from his cigar. “I’ll take care of Nick when the time comes.”

  “And Jordan?” Arden flung at him.

  “You’re edgy,” Quarles observed, and waited.

  “He’s ready to move,” Arden told him. “And from the way June acted tonight, he’s about got her convinced I’m stalling.”

  “You don’t play it smart,” Quarles answered. “You’re getting spooky.”

  • • •

  Brad and Olaf cut across Biddle’s land in a long arc, going through a gate far up the Split S fence and following unfenced Sawhorse range until they could drop down toward Quarles’ place. No one molested them; there was no sign of life except the bunches of bedded-down cattle they passed. But as they approached the Double Q, Brad made doubly sure and walked his horse softly. Nearing the buildings, he left Olaf with the horses on a rise and slipped forward on foot.

  The big Double Q bunkhouse was spilling over with noise as Brad cut a wide path around it. He came up to the house on the far side, cautious against meeting a dog, but there seemed to be none. Once he heard a horse nicker nearby, and it took him a moment to realize that it was tied in front. He slipped quietly up to it.

  His hand touched the animal’s neck soothingly and his soft words were quieting. Under his fingers, the horse was warm and lathered from a fast ride. Brad passed his hand back and traced out the brand. It was one he did not know, and without a light he could not read it.

  Moving away from the horse, he stopped in the shade of a big cottonwood that bulked near the veranda of the house. Someone came out of the bunkhouse, his laughter hooting through the night. Brad waited, and when the man had gone again, he eased himself against the wall of the house and up to a window where he could look in.

  So Olaf had been right! Brad had a view of the near end of the parlor and resting at ease in a chair was Ike Quarles. Standing before him, feet spread wide, was Dave Arden. And Arden was arguing like a man who was very sure of himself in Quarles’ presence.

  Brad could get none of the words, but the gestures Arden made were eloquent enough. He was steamed up about something. Quarles was taking it without any expression.

  Brad shifted, trying to find a place where he might be able to hear, but the bunkhouse noises had grown louder, covering all sound. He was engrossed, trying to sift out that sound and catch the talk from inside, and so he did not near the footfalls until a clod rolled under the boot of a man behind him.

  Brad spun, his hand slapping for his gun. But he was too late and the bandage around his body made him too slow. Newt was framed in the light coming from the window. There was a smirk of evil satisfaction on his face, and he carried a .44 aimed at Brad’s middle.

  “Step out, you!”

  Brad stepped, his hands held high, though it was an effort to
put them there. But there was the barest hope that Olaf might see that cutting out of the light and, in seeing it, understand.

  Newt’s breath rasped through his loose lips when he saw who it was. “Now won’t the boss be interested! The tough drifter!” The gun dipped a little. “Heard you was back. Start walking.”

  Brad knew only too well what this meant. He had saved Quarles a lot of trouble and explaining. He was trespassing, and Quarles could have him shot and there would be no questions asked. An accident in the dark was explanation enough. No man could openly put much blame on Double Q if that happened.

  Newt wiggled the gun again. “Walk,” he ordered harshly.

  Brad lowered his arms and started moving slowly. He put a whine in his voice, stalling for time. “Maybe we can make a deal, Newt.”

  “Yeh,” Newt answered. “I got a friend who’s carrying your bullet. He’d be glad to give it back to you.” He laughed at his own humor. “How’s that for a deal, Jordan?”

  “A little gold don’t go bad, Newt,” Brad suggested. “A — ”

  Newt wasn’t listening. Both men heard it at the same time. The thunder of hoofs thudding against the night. Olaf was coming in, all right, and making noise enough to raise a graveyard. Brad heard Newt’s withdrawn breath, and the man made the mistake of stepping back out of Brad’s reach so he could turn and see what was coming. In the frozen instant that Newt’s head twisted away, Brad dived at him, slashing at his gun wrist.

  Newt pivoted around and his gun crashed, the muzzle flame burning cruelly across Brad’s arm. But the gun was down on the ground and Newt was swinging his fists wildly, roaring for help.

  Men boiled from the bunkhouse and the front door of Quarles’ house slammed. Brad ducked and caught Newt with a short, jarring left that sent the man staggering backward. Olaf came riding wildly on Brad’s palomino. The men in the yard scattered as the horse swept through them. Olaf drew rein sharply as Newt’s barrel-shaped body staggered in front of his horse and then, with cold deliberation, he sawed on the reins. The horse reared with the unexpected pressure and then plunged down, his front hoofs lunging. Newt flung up one arm, and a wild scream broke from his mouth, keening high in terror.

  Brad whispered, “God Almighty!” as Olaf brought the horse up again, driving it onto Newt’s threshing body. There was another cry and a dull, snapping sound.

  “Ride back!” Brad cried at Olaf, and broke for the cover of the big cottonwood trees. The men in the yard had got their wits about them now and guns flamed.

  Olaf did as he was told, digging his heels into the palomino. His big body was loose in the saddle, but he rode bent low, and the darkness swallowed him. Brad stayed where he was for a second and then raced over the soft grass to the strange horse tied near the veranda. He had a glimpse of Quarles standing in the light of the front door, a cigar in one hand. But the noise boiling from the yard seemed to confuse rather than help him.

  “What is it?” Quarles bellowed. “Newt! Where are you? Damn it, Newt!”

  Untying the reins, Brad slid into the saddle and put the horse for the far corner of the house. “There he goes!” someone yelled, and a shot screamed a foot above Brad’s head. He could hear Arden’s voice rising in a steady swearing from the veranda.

  The men were still milling around as he reached the knoll where he had left Olaf. He found him there, astride the bay again, holding the palomino by the reins. Brad left the strange horse for his own.

  “I got your signal,” Olaf said quietly.

  “What a way to kill a man,” Brad said, but without censure.

  He understood when Olaf said simply, “He beat us.” That would be Olaf’s way, gentle until aroused, but possessed then with the terrible wildness of the easy man who is pushed too far.

  They stayed where they were in a puddle of darkness. When some of the Double Q men mounted, Brad headed the strange horse down the slope and quirted it. The animal hit the yard running full speed, went through the patch of light too swiftly to be more than glimpsed, and was gone down the road toward the valley. Brad watched as the Double Q hands streamed down the the road after it.

  But, should some of them be smarter, he led the way quickly toward the west hills, staying in shadow as much as possible and seeking grass to keep the hoofbeats muffled.

  “It was Arden,” he told Olaf. It had been reckless going there, he thought. Yet he had found out a good deal. Arden’s waiting and hedging made sense now where it had not before. And even though it gave Quarles further reason to ride on him at once, it had been worth the risk to find this out.

  “Arden’s been stalling Miss June so she couldn’t last till winter,” he explained to Olaf. “That was his game with Quarles, and now they’ll know it’s over. So the waiting is done, Olaf. They’ll shoot on sight from here on in.”

  “Yah,” Olaf agreed calmly. And they rode on without further comment.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  BEFORE Arden could answer Quarles’ accusation that he was getting spooky, the sound of hoofs hammered loudly in the room. Quarles got up quickly, and both men started for the door. A gunshot barked close by. Quarles jerked open the door and plowed onto the veranda, his cigar still in his fingers. The noise of running men and the fast-moving horse was cut sharply by an unmistakable scream of pain coming from Newt. Someone else shouted, and Arden’s horse suddenly came to life and wheeled into the night.

  Arden’s swearing rose up. Another gun cracked suddenly. Quarles squinted into the darkness, unable to see more than blurs of shadow. His demanding voice went unheard. Soon the horse came back, moving too fast for anyone to see whether or not it carried a low-bent rider.

  Men boiled downhill after the animal. Quarles turned in rage to Arden. “You fool! You were followed.”

  From the side of the house Newt’s voice was crying in pain, the sound growing weaker. Quarles left the veranda, shouting for a lantern. When it was brought, he looked down at Newt. The foreman was twisted in the dirt as if he had been tied in a knot and flung to the ground. Great beads of sweat coursed down his streaked face and blood and foam bubbled from his mouth.

  “Jordan,” he gasped. “Tricked me. The Swede ran me down with a horse.”

  Quarles put his hands out, and Newt screamed again as fingers probed at him. Quarles stood up, his face ugly in the lantern light. “Back’s broke.” He watched the blood coming from Newt’s mouth. “Busted inside, too.”

  While they watched, Newt’s gasp rose up and then faded out. After a moment he lay still. Quarles turned slowly away. “He’s done,” he said grimly. “Take care of him.” He started for the house.

  Back on the veranda he waited for Arden. “If Jordan gets away, the news of you being here will spread all over the valley.”

  Arden took a deep breath and steadied his trembling hands until he could shape a cigarette. “If it does,” he answered, “I’ll say I was trying to deal with you on the water. I’ll go to June now and give her the story. That’ll stop Jordan.”

  “If it’s believed,” Quarles said skeptically. His was a suspicious mind, and he could not understand anyone who would not have the same kind of reasoning.

  “Even if it isn’t, it’ll still give us time,” Arden argued.

  “I’m not ready. Not until Parker’s out of the way,” Quarles said.

  “There’s no help for it,” Arden objected. “Get rid of Parker and we can start.”

  Quarles seemed to be considering it “Leave any messages with Keinlan,” he ordered. “I’ve got to think on it.” He threw the stub of his dead cigar into the yard. “Now get home and mend your fences.”

  Arden went to borrow a Double Q mount, and Quarles stood on the veranda until all sound of the man and horse had faded out. Then he went to the corral and ordered his own horse. He was no longer dull with anger; he moved with the cold steadiness of a man whose mind is made up. As he followed the trail Arden had taken, he said aloud:

  “Newt was worth a dozen of that fool.”

&nb
sp; Halfway to town he met his men riding back. He lit a match and held it up to identify himself. The group was leading a riderless horse.

  “Got away,” one of them said.

  Quarles’ voice was flat and empty. “Shoot Jordan or the Swede on sight.” Dropping the match, he rode on toward town.

  Putting his horse behind the Sawhorse Saloon, he went to the upstairs room and sent for Keinlan. When he came, Quarles laid out his orders bluntly.

  “I want to know what’s really bothering Arden.” He told Keinlan of the night’s trouble and of Arden’s edginess. “Arden will be in looking for me soon. See that you find out then.”

  “I’ll try,” Keinlan said indifferently. But when Quarles had gone down to the poker tables, Keinlan’s eyes were thoughtful and there was the faintest of smiles on his drooping mouth.

  Since he was in town, Quarles decided to sit in on a game. He prided himself on being able to turn events to his own advantage before another man got hold of them. He was satisfied with the plan he had formed, and his spirits rose as he won three straight pots in the game.

  He left then, on impulse, and hurried his horse until he could see Biddle’s place. There was still a light, and he turned toward it. He got to Biddle as he was ready for bed. Quarles told him quickly what had happened.

  “Arden wants to move in on you,” Quarles pointed out.

  Biddle rubbed a hand worriedly across his mouth. “I put no brand on that stock, Ike. I done just what you said. We got two hundred head boxed in now, but I ain’t branded it.”

  “If you do,” Quarles told him, “see that Arden’s brand gets slapped on.” He laughed harshly. “He’s put it on his horses already, figuring it’s about time for the A-in-a-D to be on the range.” He made a show of leaving, and then turned casually.

  “I’d see to Arden pretty soon, Nick. He’s getting so he don’t like you here.”